


Two Boys From Brooklyn: A Poetry Collection

by KerriLovegood



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KerriLovegood/pseuds/KerriLovegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of poetry about Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and the ways their lives have become tragically and beautifully entangled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You had always been afraid of it

**You had always been afraid of it,**

This well-deep pit

Like a cigarette burn inside of you.

Your fingers were covered in charcoal

And the heat licked the inside of your broad ribs

Containing your lion heart.

 

And you flitted around it,

Flirting with the unmarked graves in your being.

You danced precariously around the edge,

And with the same self-destructive tendency that drove you to

Drink yourself unconscious

Or rush into love and war;

With the human edge that would sometimes

Leave you wondering

About the feel of free

 

Fall

 

Or of c r a c k i n g bones,

You wondered the strength of your own  **darkness.**

_ But you had so much light, too. _

It would put the stars to shame.

And you lived in it,

Looking to the celestial bodies above,

Guided by a small and scrawny boy

With a drive and loyalty

That made you think of

Maps you saw in old school classrooms

And the tack where your city was.

He had a smile that

Somewhere,

_ Everywhere-    _ Even in the

Depths

Of your darkness,

You knew he was your guiding light.

And while your lights remained and burned and flickered and grew as all things do,

From icy peaks you dropped,

You were  _ pushed- _

Into that curious abyss.

And there you were forged in the

Heat

And the

Pressure;

There you were pounded and pounded on by devilish smiths

Through animalistic screams that

Melted into    obedience.

You stumbled in the dark until you were told it was home.

And there was purpose.

There was the mission.

And that was enough.

 

**It was enough**

So that you were sated

And the shine left your eyes

So they no longer held an open sky.

**It was enough**

So that your soul

Was as much metal as your arm

And there was no need to scream.

It was enough.

It was enough, the voices told you.

It was  _ enough. _

And you believed it.

 

 

 

You believed it

Until a voice more familiar

And yet more   distant

Than any other asked a question.

One word. Five letters.

A name. “Bucky?”

And it  _ hurt. _

It hurt like a scorching brand.

You wanted to bury your fist in his chest

And rip out his throat,

But not before you could ask

What power he had over you

With that word that burned.

That word smashed down

The walls of your pit and your home and your

        Vacant hatred

                    And it all    f e l l   a w a y

                                      Like jigsaw puzzle pieces that never quite fit right.

And there was this… _ light. _

This light like exiting the city

And realizing the sky

Was not so lonely after all.

The harsh city lights had been lying to you about the night.

There was more

Than suffocating darkness all around.

And it was no home.

But that light

And that name

And that man

Who refused to fight you…

Those are a home.

The man on the bridge?

You long to see his smile.

For he is your north star.


	2. What is a Captain Without War? What is a Man Without Home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's perspective

**You never came home from the war.**

 

You realize that now.

 

And you’re c h o k i n g on the shards of it now,

This monumental revelation that splinters

Any hope for normality.

Even as the small boy

With protruding bones

In a tiny frame pulled taut

                      In reckless bravery,

You were not meant for this.

For lazy afternoons and

Heat in your face as you pull

Someone close for a slow, lilting dance.

Eyes drifting to lips.

Hands brushing hips.

You were not meant for it,

But you can still hear your best friend’s laugh.

Until it morphs into his scream.

Echoing through the mountains.

                                                Ringing.

 

                                                                                 Ringing.

 

 

_Grating._

What was his laugh? What was his _smile?_

             You found him broken in the fire of that old facility

                And lost him to winter.

     Always to winter.

                               Now you’re trying to piece him together from the fragments,

                                                                                  but there is too much that is you.

                                In the heart of it, you loved him,

                                                      Always loved him, not in a way that is loud.

More like a whisper.

More like a “Please come home.”

Accent on the _please._

_You’re on your knees._

_You’re begging._

 

But he never came home from the war.

And neither did you.

 

Lost to the ice.

            Lost from yourself.

An ache.

 

 

They tell you the war ended,

             But it’s still raging

             Inside you,

all these faded years pressing

                                          For release.

(You’re running underwater.

You can’t breathe.)

 

 

The fact of the matter is:

You are made of many things, and you hope “good”

Is still one of them.

 

 

Sometimes, with the sunrise,

All you can do is stare.

Until you start chasing it.

You wonder if your footprints

Will stay in this time.

The ice has thawed

And you wonder about the tides.

 

 

                                           “Home” seems subjective these days.

                                                       Maybe you don’t need one.

                                                  Maybe you’ve always had one.

 

 

After the war you never returned to home

Or to him.

And you’re beginning to wonder if the two

 

Are really all that different.


	3. Trigger Words: The Unmaking of a Soldier

**Longing**

Yearning. Running. Reaching with arms outstretched like a prayer.

All of your longing is for your own ghosts, the dirt of graves beneath your fingernails. 

It is the color of her lipstick when she smiles at him, this need the color of your blood. 

You do not need to see his face to know the smile he has for her. 

     You never knew he was yours until he wasn't.

You never knew your mind was yours until it wasn't. 

 

The crowd cheers. You are a blur the color of the wounded sky. You feel yourself disappearing. 

You cannot put your arm around him without reaching

 

 

 

**Rusted**

 

 

The hinges on the door of your first apartment.

The leaky pipes under the sink. 

The chain links of the fences around your world in Brooklyn. 

With spring they all blossom that tainted orange.

 

The bars of the cell they kept you in,

The color of the fire it burned in.

Your mind. Its rusted gears.

 

The decay is the only sign that time moves on. 

 

It is not his shield.

Not your arm.

Not its kills, vibrant and undying in your mind. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Seventeen**

1917.

War. The thunder of bullets. Ringing and clanging, and the shaking screams of man and gun

That you cannot distinguish.

But you do not know this war.

You came into the world screaming during this fight that shook the world. 

And you are shaking still.

It is in your blood, whether by nature or by the barrel of a gun. 

It will not leave.

 

 

**Daybreak**

A name.

Your head breaching the surface of a blackness.

That thing that paced in the back of your being,

Declawed, exposed, whimpering,

Blinking in the new light.

You have eyes that can see but cannot know.

You know his words, 

you know you  _ should  _ know his words.

 

For the first time you can remember, you feel hunger.

 

 

**Furnace**

The hard lines of his jaw, teeth grit, pressing away fear.

The winter you slept together, chest to back,

Bones protruding from his pale skin, severe angles and edges

Warmer than you thought. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Nine**

 

Screams blending together, higher and higher-

Not a war. A playground.

The streets. Laughter.

A youth pruned of its ignorance in the streets of poverty.

And still you smile.

 

There is a boy who you thought would stand taller.

His eyes have a dare.

You reach out your hand.

 

 

**Benign**

 

 

He did not,  _ does not  _ want to hurt you.

Attacks met with defense, until he drops his shield. 

They had wanted you to kill him, warned you the fight would not be easy. 

You have never done anything harder.

You could not shake the idea that something was wrong.

 

You watched him fall with crimson longing.

You feel like you have been here before.

Now you are both stronger.

Now you can follow him.

 

 

**Homecoming**

 

 

Two years. You’ve written about him, time and time again.

The fire, the playground, the ragged way he used to breathe. 

The bullets you filled him with.

And then he is there, in armor and dressed for a war.

There’s something familiar in it,

But you can’t bring yourself to name it.

He’s here.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**One**

Sweat and tears and the burnt metal just beneath your shoulder.

He keeps fighting for you, like he knows you’re worth it. 

And it all makes sense then. It has been and always will be this:

You walk bare-soled against the edges of this shattered mirror.

With him. 

With your one partner, your one cause.

 

 

**Freight train**

 

 

Before, only the falling had meaning.

The nothing. The winter.

But the ice replaced a warmth.

You remember his hand outstretched.

He was your fight, but you never wanted him in war. 

This good man,

The man you wanted to be.

 

The word he yelled to the winds was

That sunlight he brought on the bridge, so many years and so many winters later.

 

You know the word. 

It is yours.

You try to give it new meaning.

 

  
  


**Soldier?**

_ My name is Bucky. _


End file.
